The summons came at dawn.
A lone messenger strode into the barracks, his cloak dripping rain and his boots still caked with mud from a hard ride. "Squad leaders, on your feet. Orders from Command."
Alexander was already awake, seated on the edge of his bunk with sword belt in hand. The room smelled faintly of damp wool and oiled steel; half his squad snored while the other half lay quietly awake, waiting for morning drills.
"Alexander," the messenger said, scanning the room until his eyes landed on him, "you and your men are being attached to the Fourth Infantry Battalion. Full deployment orders. Muster within the hour."
The room came alive. Lionel sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes. "Deployment? As in—actual war?"
Garrick grinned, cracking his knuckles. "About damn time."
Roderick muttered, "War doesn't mean glory, it means mud and screaming. Don't celebrate yet."
Darian Rythorn stood in the corner, quietly fastening his armor, his face expressionless. He'd said little in the last few days—not since the scouting mission where his mistake had nearly cost lives.
Marching Orders
By sunrise, the camp was in chaos, soldiers scrambling to form lines, armor clanking, horses stamping impatiently near the supply wagons. The Fourth Infantry Battalion stood in formation on the parade ground: three hundred soldiers, banners of Valerius snapping in the wet wind.
Alexander's squad took position at the rear-left, their twenty men forming a tight block. The weight of his new knight's sword felt heavier than usual today—not because of its steel, but because of what it symbolized. I'm not just another soldier anymore. I have men depending on me.
"Alexander." Lieutenant Marcus Hale appeared beside him, rain dripping from his hair but not dulling his sharp expression. "You've been given temporary attachment to my command. That means you answer directly to me, and your men answer to you. Keep your head clear and your orders sharp. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Marcus studied him for a moment longer, then smiled faintly. "You've got the look of someone who wants to be more than a knight. Don't prove me wrong."
The Road to War
The march began. Mud sucked at boots, horses snorted, and wagon wheels groaned under supply loads. The forest road stretched on for hours, a long ribbon of misery broken only by Lionel's occasional humming and Garrick's grumbling about "boots not built for real men."
Alexander kept his eyes moving constantly—watching the treeline, gauging the morale of his men, and occasionally glancing back at Darian.
Roderick walked beside him. "You look like you're expecting an ambush."
"I am," Alexander said simply. "The Drovengar don't fight fair."
Darian snorted. "Fearful already, commander?"
Alexander didn't bite. "Just prepared."
First Look at the Battlefield
By afternoon, the column crested a hill—and Alexander stopped cold.
Below, the frontier fortress of Redmarch stood, its timber walls towering but scarred with old battle damage. Beyond it stretched open grassland leading to the Drovengar border—a misty horizon that felt alive with unseen eyes.
Even Lionel, normally quick with a joke, was silent. "This… is real," he whispered.
"Yeah," Garrick said, jaw tight. "No more drills. This is where people die."
Alexander's stomach knotted, but he pushed it aside. No fear. Not now.
The Command Tent
That evening, squad leaders gathered under a large canvas tent lit by lanterns. The air inside smelled of wax, ink, and wet earth. Lieutenant Marcus Hale stood at the map table, flanked by other officers.
"Our scouts report Drovengar raiding parties within a day's march of Redmarch. Their numbers are uncertain, but patterns suggest they're probing us for weakness." Marcus pointed to markers on the map. "Alexander, you and your squad will take the north perimeter. Minimal engagement unless attacked directly. You're to report any movement immediately."
"Yes, sir," Alexander replied.
Marcus's gaze hardened. "This isn't training anymore. If they come, you fight to hold until reinforcements arrive. And you will keep your men alive. Understood?"
Alexander saluted. "Understood."
Night Watch
The north perimeter was quiet that night—too quiet. The forest loomed, branches swaying in the wind like reaching fingers. Alexander moved among his men, checking positions.
Lionel whispered, "You really think they'll attack tonight?"
"No," Alexander said, scanning the treeline. "But I think they're watching."
Roderick adjusted his bowstring. "That's worse."
A voice came from the shadows—Darian, leaning on his spear. "We're wasting time. They won't attack a fortified position. Not unless they're suicidal."
Alexander turned to him. "Stay sharp. Overconfidence gets men killed."
Darian's lips curled. "I'm sharp enough. You just worry about not freezing if they actually show."
Contact
It came suddenly—a rustle in the underbrush, then a shadow moving fast. Alexander's sword was in his hand instantly.
"Hold positions!" he barked.
A figure stepped into the clearing—a single Drovengar scout, dressed in furs, eyes wide as he spotted the squad. He turned to run, but Alexander was already moving.
"Lionel, Garrick—flank him!"
The man bolted, but Garrick slammed into him from the side, tackling him to the ground. Lionel twisted his arm behind his back.
The scout spat something guttural in his own language. Alexander crouched, meeting his eyes. "Tell your commander we see him coming. And if he steps closer, we'll cut him down."
The man only sneered. They tied him and sent for reinforcements to take him into custody.
Darian's Challenge
When the others were occupied, Darian stepped closer, voice low. "One scout? You acted like we were under full attack."
Alexander turned, eyes sharp. "And if he'd had five more behind him? Or ten? What then?"
Darian hesitated. "Then we'd fight."
Alexander shook his head. "No. We'd die because you still think this is about pride. You don't get it yet, Rythorn, but you will."
For once, Darian didn't respond with an insult. He just stood there, silent, as Alexander walked away.
End of Watch
By dawn, no more scouts came. But Alexander couldn't shake the feeling they were being tested, measured. The quiet didn't feel safe—it felt like a promise.
Back in camp, Marcus Hale reviewed the report. "You did well. Quick reaction, no unnecessary casualties. I like that."
Alexander nodded, but his mind was already racing. They're coming. And when they do, I need these men ready.
Night Thoughts
That evening, Alexander sat outside the barracks, staring at the misty horizon. Lionel approached, carrying two tin cups. "You look like a man waiting for something bad."
"I am," Alexander said quietly. "A storm's coming."
Lionel sat beside him. "Then we'll weather it. Together."
Alexander allowed himself a faint smile. "Yeah. Together."
Across the yard, Darian watched them from the shadows, conflicted. His pride still burned, but something had shifted—Alexander's decisiveness, his calm under pressure, gnawed at him. For the first time, Darian wondered if maybe, just maybe, this commoner did belong in command.